


From His Lips

by Nienna



Category: Berserk
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nienna/pseuds/Nienna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of ficlets centered on Griffith and Guts, written for the following prompts:<br/>- shy kiss;<br/>- war’s end kiss;<br/>- jealous kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Night, Warm Morning

Only a few months had passed since Guts joined the Band of the Hawk, but he could remember no other life. Among them, everything was different. And it was all thanks to _him_.

Griffith.

If the Band of the Hawk was unlike any mercenary army, Griffith was unlike any leader, any swordsman, any _person_ Guts had ever met. From the start, Griffith had been strange, unreadable, impossible to understand. And the longer Guts spent with him, the more perplexing he became. More perplexing, and… more fascinating.

Just like Guts couldn’t understand Griffith, he struggled to wrap his head around his own feelings for him. At first, he had thought Griffith was a pretentious, arrogant ass, someone Guts could never bring himself to like. And yet… from the very start, there was something about Griffith, something radiant, something that drew Guts to him. He couldn’t remember when his feelings began to change, when his initial dislike - was there even a dislike? - turned into… into what he felt now.

Griffith shone. He was a beacon, to the hawks, and to Guts. Griffith’s presence seemed to transform his surroundings; when he was around, everything felt more vivid, more alive. Whenever Griffith looked towards him, smiled at him, praised his performance in their latest battle, Guts’ heart soared. It was embarrassing to admit it, but… it did.

More embarrassing to admit, however, was how beautiful he thought Griffith was.

Oh, Guts had always known Griffith was good looking. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell that. But there’s a difference between admitting someone has a pretty face, and finding them truly, incomparably beautiful.

Guts struggled to remember when he made that transition. Maybe it was when Griffith gave him that speech, on the dawn following Guts’ first battle with the Band of the Hawk. Maybe it was when Griffith laughed, so heartily, so spontaneously, after their silly water fight. Maybe it was when Griffith saved his life, or when he trusted him with an important duty in his first raid. Or maybe, just maybe, it was even before that, when Griffith touched his face and said the most mystifying words Guts had ever heard. _“Now you belong to me.”_

Guts mulled these questions often. Especially on nights like these, nights following battles, when spirits were high and ale ran freely. Nights when Griffith sat by his side and drank with him, smiling, laughing. Or even just looking at him.

There was something about the way Griffith looked at Guts, something that made his stomach swirl and his heart skip a beat.

Guts drank more than usual that night, his head plagued by thoughts of the one man he was unable to understand. When he attempted to sleep, his tent seemed to spin, and he was forced to run outside and empty his stomach in a ditch. Nauseous and exhausted, he fell asleep on the grass, looking at the stars.

He woke to gentle touching on his face. When he opened his eyes, Griffith leaned over him.

Dawn was breaking, and the glow of early morning basked Griffith’s silver-white hair in soft light. He was half-lying, half-sitting by Guts’ side, one of his hands warm against Guts’ cheek. His lips curved into a smile, and he whispered, “Good morning.”

Guts wondered if he was dreaming.

“I’m glad you didn’t freeze to death, sleeping out here,” Griffith continued, withdrawing his hand. Guts’ cheek suddenly felt very cold. “I thought you could handle your alcohol. Water?” He dangled a canteen over Guts’ head.

So it wasn’t a dream after all.

“I… I _can_ handle my alcohol,” Guts protested, words slurred. Slowly, he attempted to sit up. To his surprise, a blanket had been placed over him. Over him _and_ Griffith.

“As I said, I wouldn’t want you to freeze to death,” was Griffith’s only explanation. He removed the canteen’s lid, and handed it to Guts.

Suppressing his embarrassment, Guts took the canteen and drank. The water was cool, a bit _too_ cool, but it tasted wonderful in his parched mouth; he hadn’t realized how thirsty he had been. After draining all of the canteen’s contents, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and mumbled, “What if someone saw us sleeping together?”

“It was dark, and everyone was too busy drinking.”

“Why weren’t you with them?”

Griffith looked at him. _Looked_ at him in that strange, unreadable way that made Guts’ pulse quicken. “I wanted to know where you were.”

Guts frowned. “What, you thought I was gonna run away or something?” For some reason, the possibility offended him.

“No. No, I didn’t.” He said nothing else.

“Why do you have to be so damn coy all the time?” Guts blurted, losing hold of his temper. “You literally slept out here, on the grass, in this cold, just to keep some guy warm. You know, I’m starting to think you _really_ do swing that way.”

“What if I did?”

The question took Guts unaware. He had expected Griffith to be angered by his outburst, not… this. “Uh. Well. It doesn’t matter. Because you don’t. Right?”

“Do you?”

Guts wanted to scream, or punch that pretty face of Griffith’s again. “I asked you first!”

Only after the words were out of his mouth did Guts realize how childish he sounded. To his further embarrassment, Griffith laughed. “So your answer depends on mine?”

Guts felt his face flush. “I– I could ask you the same thing.”

To that, Griffith had no reply. Still looking at Guts, he blinked slowly. His eyelashes were so long.

“I wonder,” he said simply.

Guts’ eyes widened. “You… wonder? You don’t know?”

“Do you?”

This time, Guts _did_ scream. And he likely did it too loudly, for Griffith sprung at him, covering his mouth with his palm. Guts fell back on the grass, Griffith on top of him.

In a hushed tone, Griffith said, “Everyone’s asleep, but if you keep yelling like that, the entire camp will be here.”

Griffith removed his hand from his mouth, but Guts was speechless. They were so close. Long silver hair tickled Guts’ face. Griffith’s lips were half-parted. Guts couldn’t keep himself from staring at them.

A moment later, those lips were upon his own.

It lasted a fraction of a second, so brief Guts wondered if it had even happened. But Griffith muttered, “I’m sorry, I lost my balance,” his speech so hurried it almost seemed he had stammered. And then he stood and left, without another word. He forgot the blanket and the canteen.

Maybe Guts imagined it, but in that moment, Griffith’s face had been red.


	2. Listen to the Thunder

Men often spoke about the thrill of battle, the exhilaration that took over one’s mind as he slashed through his enemies. Griffith, however, felt no thrill. The battles he fought were careful, calculated. He had to keep his poise and control if he wanted to win. There was joy in victory, joy in moving towards his dream. But to shed blood, to kill–- that was a mere necessity.

An unpleasant one.

Some found battles exhilarating, but to Griffith, they were a burden. Each enemy defeated was another corpse at his feet, another death he could not allow himself to mourn. He took no pleasure in battles. They were gruesome, ugly things.

It changed when he met Guts.

Fighting by his side was different. Guts was full of life-– no, he was life itself, brimming with insurmountable energy on the battlefield. And he was death, tearing his enemies to shreds, killing any who dared cross his path. Those who were ignorant about swordplay might assume Guts was just a brute swinging an oversized sword, but Griffith knew better. He was a master. A master who wielded his sword… for no one but him.

With Guts by his side, battles were still gruesome, but they were no longer ugly. The blood Guts spilled seemed brighter, richer, painting shades of crimson Griffith never thought he would enjoy. He moved from foe to foe, his huge sword no more than a blur, felling dozens, if not hundreds, of men.

Guts made the battlefield beautiful, and taught Griffith what it meant to feel the thrill of battle.

And when the fighting was over, when Guts pulled back his helmet, his face dripping with sweat and blood, was when the thrill ran stronger in Griffith’s body. It was when his calm and composure melted, when he struggled to suppress the urge to do something reckless and foolish. When the heat of battle died down, and Guts walked to his side, grinning and seeking _his_ approval, was when Griffith’s heart beat faster.

That thrill and that smile, these were things he could live for.

And so, at the end of the Hundred-Year War, while the Band of the Hawk clamored over an impossible victory, Griffith’s blood pounded in his ears. Guts was by his side, grinning, always grinning, and smelling of sweat and dirt and everything Griffith had always wanted. Everything he never thought he would want.

Guts remained by his side as they marched back to camp, as the Band began their last celebration as a campaigning army. Tomorrow, they would begin their journey back to Windham, where the merry crowds of soldiers would be replaced by arrogant, sneering nobles. Tomorrow, the thrill would end.

This was his last night.

Griffith sat in his tent, alone. His heart still raced, his mind still going through the images of that day’s battle. He had forgotten Gennon, his own fight. His past was buried. There was only the future. Guts. Standing tall, proud, resting his sword on his shoulder. Beckoning. Why was Guts the one beckoning him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? But the thrill played tricks on his mind. It allowed him to dwell on feelings he had always pushed aside. It made him face just how important, just how _crucial,_ that one man was to him. Guts…

The entrance to his tent flapped, and the very man he had been thinking about walked inside.

Guts was laughing, still carrying the buoyant mood from the Band’s celebration with him. He walked towards Griffith, leaning over him, thrusting a mug of ale in his hands. Guts no longer smelled of blood and sweat– he had bathed, and the only scent on him now was that of alcohol. Drunk.

Griffith took the mug in his hands, but did not sip from it. Guts started talking, going on about how excited everyone was, how much fun Griffith was missing holed up here in this tent. His breath was pure liquor, warm on Griffith’s face. Guts was never this talkative. He had never been this drunk.

Guts was still speaking, but Griffith couldn’t focus on his words. He watched his lips move, enthralled. His gaze traveled along the curve of his jaw, down to his neck, his shoulders. His arms, so well-muscled after years of wielding a sword most men would struggle to lift. When would Griffith see those arms in battle again, when would he see those muscles tensing as Guts unsheathed his sword, as he swung his weapon to cut through all who stood before him?

Would their relationship change, with no battles to fight?

Guts was no longer speaking. He must’ve realized Griffith wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were now locked on Griffith’s face, slightly unfocused from the intoxication. He blinked slowly, waiting for Griffith to say something. His lips were half-parted.

Guts had never been this drunk. And Griffith wasn’t in his right mind. For in the next moment, he found himself leaning forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss.

Guts tensed against his mouth, shocked. But Griffith could not stop. He placed a hand behind Guts’ head, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. He slid his tongue past Guts’ lips.

Through it all, Guts remained unresponsive.

Something inside Griffith broke, and he pulled back, horrified at himself, desperately hoping that the alcohol wouldn’t let Guts remember anything in the morning. The thrill was gone, replaced by terror, his heart racing for a different reason. But it lasted barely a moment.

Guts kissed him. It was a clumsy, sloppy, downright inexperienced attempt at a kiss. But Guts buried his fingers in Griffith’s hair, slid his arm around his waist, pulled him up so they were both standing. He pressed Griffith against his chest, that wide, powerful chest of his, pressed him so closely that Griffith could feel Guts’ racing heart, beating along with his own. All while Guts kissed him, kissed him in that brash, impetuous manner that belonged to Guts and Guts alone.

Griffith had thought this would be a night of endings. The next morning, as he woke in Guts’ arms, he realized he had been wrong.

The war had ended, but something else would begin.


	3. Only for Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship in this one!

Guts couldn’t stand balls. All the ridiculous clothes, the weird food, the arrogant nobles… But worst of all, the fawning. The _goddamn_ fawning.

Yes, balls might’ve been tolerable if he could sit alone in his own corner, but no matter where he went, he was trailed by prattling nobles. They would go on and on about his so-called exploits and heroic deeds, begging him to retell the story of every single battle he had ever fought. Some of the young - and not-so-young - women would even remark on his oh-so-impressive build, as if finding a soldier with some muscle was something to write home about. It was _exhausting_.

But Griffith wanted him to be there, so Guts endured it. 

Tonight, however, was particularly bad. He was surrounded by over a dozen minor noblewomen, and they were attempting what he dreaded the most: flirting.

Guts wasn’t really sure why any noble in her right mind would consider _him_ a decent potential husband, but ever since he was knighted following the end of the war against Chuder, this situation was becoming more and more common. And now, with Griffith nowhere to be found, he had to face this battle alone.

He’d rather fight a hundred men again. _Honestly._

“How does it feel?” one of the women asked, unceremoniously clinging to his arm. “Being in a war. Is it as exciting as they say?”

“Uh,” he grumbled, trying not to roll his eyes. “I guess. If you’re into killing and almost dying, that is.”

“Is it really like making love?”

Guts’ jaw nearly dropped. What kind of comparison was that? “There’s a lot of blood, chopped limbs, and dead bodies. Not like any lovemaking I’ve ever seen.”

The noblewomen laughed as if he had told a joke. “We were talking about the feeling, silly. That thrill… you know?”

Guts only grumbled.

Giggling again. One of them came closer to him, and to Guts’ ultimate horror, she whispered, “If you want to know what thrill I’m talking about, I can show you after the party.”

All he could do was sputter pathetically, feeling his face flush to a bright red. If that wasn’t bad enough, the woman was rising to stand on her tiptoes, as if… as if…

Goddamnit, no, no, _no way!_

Guts was about to succumb to the urge of pushing her back, but before he could do so, someone firmly grabbed his arm–-

“Lord Griffith!”

All of the noblewomen had spoken in unison. The one who had been upon Guts stepped away, turning towards the newcomer. Griffith smiled pleasantly at them, but his hand still squeezed Guts’ arm.

“Forgive me for the interruption,” he said, gentle tone contrasting with his iron grip, “But I need a moment to speak to my captain. Privately.”

Before anyone had a chance to protest, Griffith took off, dragging Guts with him.

Guts was happy to follow, even though Griffith’s hold on him was borderline painful. He wondered if something dire had happened as Griffith led him away from the core of the party, and out into a deserted section of the garden. They walked among perfectly trimmed bushes until the noise of the party could barely be heard, and only then did Griffith stop. Guts opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on…

But before he could do so, Griffith pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn’t the first time Griffith kissed him roughly. But he was far more intense, far more demanding, than he ever had been. Griffith’s arms wrapped around his neck, pulling with such force Guts struggled to keep his balance. Griffith’s teeth bit into his lower lip, making Guts feel a familiar metallic taste inside his mouth. And he dragged the kiss on and on, until Guts’ lips were sore and aching.

When Griffith finally pulled back, his own lips were even redder than usual.

“What was that all about?” Guts blurted. Not in anger; that kiss had been too good for him to be angry. But in perplexity.

“Just a reminder,” Griffith replied softly, the hint of a smile in his mouth, “A reminder that you belong to me.”

Guts blinked for a moment, confused. And then it dawned on him. “You were jealous? Of those bootlickers?”

Griffith frowned, almost imperceptibly. “Not jealous. I just don’t want to see others touching you in that manner.”

“Right. Not jealous at all.” Guts couldn’t hold back a smile.

Griffith raised an eyebrow, but after a second, he was smiling as well. “I’m only human, Guts.”

“Then I’m the one who should be jealous. You have way more nobles kissing your ass than I do.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Griffith replied, tone serious, “I am yours, Guts.”

Despite his sore lips, Guts found himself pulling Griffith into another kiss.


End file.
